“Because a monk visiting a monastery who comes from a traveling order like the Franciscans is more easily explained. We must keep our lies to a minimum in order to keep your story straight.”
“One lie at a time, eh?”
He patted Jack’s shoulder. “That’s right, Jack. One lie at a time. Now you are gaining understanding.”
Crispin continued his tuition, telling Jack what he could expect as a monk. When the shadow of the cathedral draped across their path, Crispin stopped. “Here’s where I leave you, Jack.”
“What? I thought you would go to the priory with me.” His eyes were bright.
“No, Jack. They mustn’t see you with me.” He took the wrapped sword out of Jack’s hands once more. “Only a few monks might have caught a glimpse of you in the church, but it was dark and your hood was up. So keep your eyes down. You are Brother John now. Answer to nothing else.”
“I’m Brother John. Holy Christ Jesus’ toes.” He took a step and then stopped. “Oh wait! How will I know when I’m done inquiring?”
“When you find out something. Good luck, Jack.”
“Pax vobiscum,” he answered, making the sign of the cross over Crispin that quickly turned to a rude forking of his fingers.
Crispin dragged himself back to the inn. What if Geoffrey was there? There had to be a reasonable explanation why Geoffrey’s dagger was used to kill Wilfrid. He racked his brain, but he could not recall if Geoffrey was wearing the dagger when they went to the cathedral or not. If he had left it behind or lost it, anyone could have retrieved it and used it. But why? Who would have cause to kill Wilfrid? The monk was a puzzle, but the Prioress’s death less so. He needed to talk to Bonefey. Of all the pilgrims, he was the one with the biggest grudge against the Prioress. He was anxious to corner him and maybe have a look at his red gown.
He turned the street corner and spied Maufesour and Chaunticleer creeping back to the inn. Maufesour looked over his shoulder and gripped the door when he spied Crispin. He ducked hurriedly inside and Crispin mouthed a few choice oaths.
He reached the door and yanked it open and merely stood in the doorway surveying the subdued company. Even Harry Bailey’s usual cheerful exterior was showing signs of wear. Crispin cut his glance to Maufesour and grinned maliciously at him before he greeted the Miller, who stumped forward, bagpipe in one hand, beaker in the other. “Master Guest, what is the word? We have since heard terrible tidings at the cathedral. It seems the devil has come to roost in Canterbury.”
“Indeed. You may be right, Master Miller.”
“It is Edwin Gough, good sir. At your service. Anything that you need, I will aid you.”
“Thank you, Master Gough.” He shouldered his way through the others and sat heavily on a bench, laying the sword across his thighs. “But what I need is Master Chaucer’s whereabouts.”
“We haven’t seen him,” said Clarke, the Manciple. He sat almost apologetically next to Crispin and rested his long pale fingers on the table before him. He made a sharp glance over his shoulder at the Summoner and Pardoner. “But his whereabouts aren’t the only mystery of late.”
“I see I have been disobeyed again.”
“There is nothing you can do with those two, Master Guest.”
“Call me Crispin.”
“And you may call me Thomas.” The Manciple edged closer and spoke quietly. “While it is true that my occupation only involves ordering provisions for the law students under my care, I have come to view the law with fascination. I sit in on the trials, you see. A Manciple I may be, but a man can show his worth by acquiring a wider sphere of knowledge.” Crispin nodded approvingly. “A particular law student makes me aware of unusual cases. For his trouble, I make certain he receives an extra measure of ale. Would it surprise you to know that I am aware of the trial of Madame Eglantine and Sir Bonefey?” Crispin was taken aback but tried not to show it. “I myself was not at that trial,” he went on, “but I studied the transcripts.” He answered Crispin’s quizzical expression. “The trial was curious and contentious.”
“Had the Prioress a legitimate claim?”
Clarke made loops on the table with his fingertips as if scribing his parchments. “I read the notes thoroughly, Master Crispin. I am no lawyer. But I have immersed myself in enough law to be a fine apprentice of it, I can tell you. Better than some of the students I have encountered.” He flushed from his own presumption. “But from what I could make of it, Sir Bonefey should have been the clear winner.”
“Then why wasn’t he, I wonder?”
Clarke opened his mouth and then closed it again. He made his imaginary scribing on the table and eyed Father Gelfridus talking quietly to Harry Bailey. “He challenged the Church,” he whispered.
“I understand Master Chaucer testified on behalf of Sir Philip.”
Clarke’s nervous fingers twitched on the wood. It began to irritate. “That is what I read, Master Crispin. I know he is a friend of yours, but-”
An icy hand clutched his heart. He knew he didn’t want to hear what the Manciple had to say, but hear it he must. “Master Clarke. Thomas. I should like to know.”
“Well, he … he spoke on behalf of what he called the common man faced with the … the…” His voice fell to a whisper again. “The tyranny of the Church.”
Crispin sat back. He could easily see how that would not sit well with the archbishop. He could imagine the rest. Did Geoffrey have to paint “Lollard” on his forehead?
“Thank you, Master Clarke. Is Sir Philip here?”
“I thought he was in his room.”
“And Dame Marguerite? Is she better?”
“She has been out walking in the garden.”
He nodded and inquired which room was Bonefey’s. He rose and then leaned down close to Clarke. “Do me the favor of keeping an eye skinned on these two,” and he gestured toward Maufesour and Chaunticleer. “I’d hate for them to nip off again without my having a talk with them.”
Crispin climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he went to his chamber to discard the sword and quickly left before the call of the soft bed became too great to bear. He walked along the gallery to the last door and knocked.
He heard shuffling. A chair skidded across the floor. Then, “Who is there?”
“It is Crispin Guest, Sir Philip. May I enter?”
A pause. “If you must.” The bolt grated and the door flung open. “Well then?” Bonefey planted himself in the doorway. “Do you have good news to report?”
“I would rather not stand in the gallery, Sir Philip. If I may?” He advanced and Bonefey was forced to retreat. Making a cursory inspection of the room Crispin turned to his host. “There has been another murder.”
“God preserve us! Who?”
“A monk. Another innocent. In the church.”
“Absolutely monstrous. What has become of this town?”
“Gough the Miller says the devil has come to roost.”
“I think he is right. Do you insist we continue to stay?”
“I do.”
“To what end? It must be clear to you by now that we have nothing to do with these murders.”
Crispin glanced out Bonefey’s open window. It overlooked the courtyard and the stables. A lone stableman pitched hay into a stall and a shaggy horse bent its head to nuzzle the golden fodder. “I wonder about your disagreement with the Prioress.”
Silence. Crispin turned, making certain Bonefey was still in the room.
“Why?”
“Because she’s dead. And because you were the only one to have a motive to kill her.”
Bonefey drew his sword. His reddened features twisted with rage. “How dare you!”
He merely looked at the naked blade gleaming in the firelight. “You like your sword, do you?”
“You insult me, sir! You accuse me of a most foul deed!”
“And you have drawn your blade on a man who owns no sword. Yes, you are brave indeed, Sir Philip. And what weapon do I use to defend myself? My fist?”